Today marks one year. Most of the big firsts are over: the first Father’s Day, the first birthday, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas. I am glad those are over and I must say that with time it has gotten easier. I still think about and miss him everyday but I do not cry as much or as randomly as before. This is good. I know that it is because of the depth of my love for him that the pain will never truly go away, and this is good too.
As I move forward with my life and as I start to form a new and exciting future by going back to college to become a teacher, I think how nice it would be if he were here to see my accomplishments. He would be proud, of this I am certain.
He would also be tickled to see my name and picture in the paper as a reader columnist for The News Tribune (my first column runs on the 25th). I tried very hard to write my first piece about my dad, as a tribute to him if you will, but the words were vapor in my mind and I could not turn them into a solid to save my soul. I don’t think I can share such a raw and personal topic with such a large and faceless audience. I don’t know them yet, like I know you, and do not feel comfortable sharing my dad with them. I still have that draft of a post I promised you from my summer trip to South Dakota to visit his childhood haunts that I can not bring myself to finish. Every time I open it and start to read the words, my eyes tear up and it hurts to breath. I am not ready to write that story. Perhaps in time.
So there it is. One year. It went fast but in slow motion. I have not cried today until now. There is something about writing, about seeing the words as they lurch from my head to my hands, something about that little blinking line waiting so patiently for me to collect my thoughts and go on, that frees me and allow me to cry.